


tidal wave

by sgt_jerk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), References to Depression, Slow Build, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, please let your friends in steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgt_jerk/pseuds/sgt_jerk
Summary: A few months after the events on the Triskellion, Bucky is still gone, and Steve is being visited by a ghost.Dreaming or not, when your window is open and a voice is cutting through, all you can do is try to listen.It's whispering to tell you a story, that history and time take no prisoners of war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The entirety of this fic will be published first thing at Flamecon in Brooklyn! I'm making a-hand printed zine with Part II of this fic as well as other Cap content. Come say hi to me and my boyfriend at table M129!  
> After the con, I will be posting ch. 2.

You could’ve cut the night air with a butter knife. The atmosphere laid thick over the city like a woolen insulation blanket, keeping out any breeze that was thinking of rolling across the river and through apartment blocks. Sweaty legs tangled in sheets across the streets and down every avenue. Pigeons were too sleepy to coo, gulls off the East River took to bobbing around under the dock to get at the shade, like somebody had cut a cluster of buoys loose. The evening’s striped colors faded into the navy blue-black of the late night, speckled with a billow of barely perceptible stars. Badges of honor, dully hanging above the haze.

Steve supposed Sam would be asleep by now. He was a morning person anyways, and usually had places to be by the time most sane people were just pressing snooze on their alarms. Sam had people to be charming to, messes to clean up at the office. This was a shame, as Steve hadn’t been sleeping recently. Or in the past few months, if he was being truly honest with himself. Sam was conversant in the art of a calming phone call, and it was too easy to interrupt him after dinner to shoot the breeze, to talk about nothing in particular.

Maybe he had been sleeping after all, and had just dreamed up the passing months. It was the feeling of a waking dream that couldn’t be shook off, a place separate from the daytime. A dream where he could turn out the lights, close window tight and the draw curtains, but would wake up to an open window again. Someone was whispering promises or hints through the open window, just beyond the reach of his hearing. The message was subsumed by a dead, white sound that would fill his ears with a static radio signal. His eyes were woolly with pale sand and salt water; his head might as well have been submerged this entire time.

The static would float down through the depths, and the waves would move through water far too slow, like a child swimming with clothes on. Brains like submarines didn’t do too well when the time came to make small talk with the neighbors.

After Steve had put down his cell phone or book or laptop for the night, he’d lie down to go to bed only to wake exhausted, the radio receiver in his mind full of static messaging.

Sam had tried to break it to him gently, told him that he should really be finding a more constructive outlet for this frustration than just drawing or blogging, and he couldn’t doubt the truth in that. He hadn’t really been able to draw anything but cityscapes for a while now, and that was because he could roll out of bed to do them, and leaning off the windowsill looking out over the fire escape gave the feeling of being outside without having to battle molten pavement of the city streets and the inevitable recognition that would follow. He could look out at the shimmer coming off the black plastic tops of buildings and travel, his gaze bounding from roof to roof, never having to touch down.

He had to admit that waiting for the sun to go down was getting old. Sam was always sharp like that.

He’d expanded his routine to include a walk to the DeKalb Library, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses on until he reached the welcoming emptiness of the cool, taupe entrance. Initially, his beeline to the fiction section seemed natural. Given that he was only just over half-way through his recommendation list, Steve had figured that he’d better start catching up. Besides, the library checkout had a self-serve station where nobody would give him funny looks or ask him where they knew him from. There were only so many times he could explain that yes, he was the nice man from the Kraft macaroni box before he would start to get truly jittery. It was only when Dr. Banner had recommended a popular history on the legacy of the Central Park Five that he’d ventured into the nonfiction section.

This was, all in all, a mistake.

 

* * *

 

 

Three documentaries and five comprehensive histories later, he’d felt confident enough in his research to start delving into the newspaper file slides from every year between 1947 and 1991. He’d become preoccupied with consuming all the years just beyond his reach, where Bucky had lived and he’d died. If you could call it living, on and off. Counting years and decades in fits and starts, if Bucky could even count them at all.

Steve had only been able to see a few feet in front of him for months, grasping out to grab the next step towards finding him, like a grade-schooler crossing the bars of a jungle gym for the first time. He could only hold onto one thing in each hand, only carrying what he needed to convey himself forward. He couldn’t tell if his preoccupation was futility or obsession, but the only recognizable thing was the fact that the blanket of thick, static noise was only parted while he was searching for Bucky. What else would pull him towards purpose? Certainly not SHIELD anymore, nor the military. Maybe in public service he could be useful, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like a phony. Like he was still stuck inside the suit of a much greater man, who’d gone off and saved some damsels without his permission, while he’d slept.

 

“I thought for sure you’d be in the documentary section.” Natasha, wearing sunglasses perched atop her head, flopped down onto a seat opposite him, folding her hands on the speckled and nicked plastic of the reading room table.

He tried not to seem too startled by her sudden appearance, shooting her a grin. “I’ve had enough of newsreels for one lifetime, thanks.” He dog-eared his page, closing the book between them. “I thought you were in DC for now? Or did you get bored.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting briefed on this stuff?” She said, through a sigh.

“Need-to-know kinda thing, I guess.” He shifted his weight, trying to angle his arm in a way that might block the titles of the books he’d stacked next to him on the table.

“Some light reading you got there.” No such luck. Natasha was kind enough to not tell him how unsubtle he was.

“You could say that.” The spine of An Expanded History of Cold War Social Politics was still peeking out from behind his left elbow. Drat. Natasha reached under his arm to pluck the tome out from under him, leafing through the first few chapters, the pages fluttered under her fingers two at a time.

“I’m glad you’re taking charge of your own secondary education, Rogers.”

“It’s not- I mean, you’re not wrong. Just trying to learn as much as I can.”

She arched an eyebrow, shooting him an incredulous look. “What, the file I gave you on Barnes wasn’t enough? Or are you legitimately playing 20th century catchup?” Steve felt his throat dry out. He couldn’t help but get the feeling that he was being cross-examined; Natasha tended to have that effect on people.

“Even if you’d given me step by step directions on how to find him, it wouldn’t be enough.” Steve heard himself let out a short, weak laugh. The sound barely made it all the way out of his mouth.

He didn’t think Natasha was capable of looking truly pitying, but this might be as close as he’d ever seen her get. The pit of his stomach sunk in response.

“I…Y’know, I actually considered not coming to find you up here.” She set down the book back down with a thud, flicking a strand of auburn hair from her brow. “I thought you might not need to get any more grief about looking for Barnes.” Her face had settled into a carefully neutral expression, guarded. Monitored.

Steve sunk back in his chair stiffly, away from the books and the table and Natasha’s inscrutable look. She had helped him without a second thought. She’d known just how badly he needed to finish what he’d- what Hydra had begun between the two of them. She’d understood.

“… _More_ grief?”

“I didn’t want to…get in the way of anything you were doing. I know Sam has been helping you out with everything after what happened.”

She wasn’t supposed to keep secrets from him. He had thought-

“Natasha.” He snapped, “What is it.”

“I don’t want you to to anything drastic.” She stared blankly at the cover of the book.

The blanket of static settled deep over his ears, his eyes, submerging him. Steve could only clench his hands over his knees, fingernails digging furrows into his palms.

“…Rogers?”

He exhaled once. Twice. Loosened his grip.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t choose to leave the DC of my own volition. As you might’ve guessed.” She folded her hands in front of her, knuckles pale. “I started getting bad vibes as soon as I started going back to meet with Fury. He wanted me to help him collect on some old debts since he’d ‘died’, and I was more than obliged to help him out. As soon as we started meeting up in person, I just. I dunno. I thought I was being paranoid at first.”

A lightbulb started to flicker above their heads like some kind of fluorescent metronome, and Steve couldn’t find his breath in the hollow of his chest.

“I set up some monitors outside my apartment building, nothing too crazy. I just thought it would be CIA or some private ops looking for me or Fury or for you, and for the first few days or so there wasn’t anything. I tried to keep my patterns regular, but I set up a couple of thermal cams in my house to check for bugs. Just in case.”

Reaching into a messenger bag slung across the seat back, she pulled open a tablet, unlocking it to what looked like a few screenshots from a monitor. He could pick out the vague outlines of what must have been Natasha’s apartment. It looked relatively spare, one bookshelf, a table, a chair, and a closed door.

“This is the before. Now-” She punctuated with a swipe. “…The after.”

Steve felt a choked gasp clench up in his throat. A figure stood in the empty room, silhouetted in technicolor purple and electric red, with one arm lit with a slight orange-pink outline. Rivulets of dark red striped the arm, a phantom heat filtering through the crevices. He covered his mouth before he could make any more sound.

“I would never have known for sure it was him if I hadn’t set up the cameras.” She shook her head a little. “Old habits, right?”

He didn’t bother asking how he’d found out where she lived. Buck had always been patient, and he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

“Did you see him?” “Absolutely not. You think I wasn’t more than a little spooked?” He tore himself away from the screen. “I…I don’t blame you.” It was more for his benefit than for hers.

Natasha flicked off the tablet, quickly stowing it back in the bag. “I got out of there, obviously. I was more concerned with what he might do if he figured out that Fury and I knew where you were.” She sighed heavily, like she’d been holding in a breath for some time. “He’s definitely looking for clues, or answers, or something, because if he’d still been trying to kill us, I’m not sure I would be talking to you right now.” She grimaced. “Either way, I packed up. But once I was well out of the city, I thought if I was the Soldier? If it were me in his position, trying to find someone who knew who I was?”

Natasha leaned forward on her elbows, sliding the book back towards him. “I’d be interested in following someone who had helped Steve Rogers.”


	2. Chapter 2

Steve had walked home in a daze. There was a thick layer of dust clouding everything around him in a thick, hazy cloud. It had gotten hot during the day, and the apartment was muggy. Naturally he’d forgotten to turn on the air conditioning before leaving the house. A slow-moving gust of air rolled out to meet him as he cracked the front door, and he went around to close all the windows, pull the blinds down to keep out the late afternoon sun.

He collapsed onto the bedsheets, letting all the air drain from his lungs. He could almost see the hot breath rising in a cloud above his head, blowing loose some of the haze coating him.

He tried to breathe deep, in and out a few times, every breath the same uniform shape. Not like the old days, where he had to really concentrate to breathe evenly, from his abdomen. It was too easy back then to let the dry coughs ride up in his chest and choke him.

 

Then again, Bucky had always been there to press his palm to his sternum and steady him. Not too heavy, but not too light either. Simply making him aware of the shape of his chest.

_“Lift my hand with your breath, okay?”_

He could usually only barely wheeze out a dry okay in response, and sometimes he could only cough and splutter until it passed. But Bucky would always just lie there, with one hand resting on his breast bone, letting him find his own breath and struggle on his own until he settled into a shallow rest. He knew he always worried about him, but he tended to be good at hiding it with a funny joke, or a good story from his day. He was kind like that.

Steve rolled over to his side, breathing still long and steady and too simple. Trying to clear his mind of Natasha’s last words to him didn’t do much good, and the image of the Winter Soldier’s thermal outline thrummed behind his eyes in neon colors. His bed was still too soft and wide, and he could only stare at the shadows criss-crossing the pale ceiling.

He didn’t remember sleep coming for him, but it eventually did, ensconcing him in darkness.

 

* * *

 

Something shifted, and awoke him in the middle of the night. The stripes of light banding through the blinds hit the wall, rippling with a light breeze from the open window. Steve leaned up in bed, just enough to let his eyes adjust to the lack of direct light, senses on edge. The dark forms of the furniture looming around the end of his bed. He was sure he’d closed the window. He was positive.

The light caught a muddled shape half-crouched under the window. Steve opened his mouth to gasp, or to make some kind of sound, but his mouth had dried up.

“Who’s-“ His voice caught in his throat before he could finish the sentence.

The shape turned slowly, covered mostly by a dark sweatshirt, to stand upright.

“Bucky?”

He stiffened and tensed, the lines of light from the blinds raking over him, catching on a glint of metal at the edge of one of his cuffs.

Steve exhaled, shaky.

“...You know me,” The shape shuddered, and turned to face him. "Please, Buck."

 

Bucky straightened upright, form gaining humanity with each motion. He didn't meet Steve's eyes. He had a pair of scruffy jeans on, with even scruffier boots, and a dark baseball cap pulled down low on his brow. Steve’s heart was crashing through his chest, and there was no force on earth that could have made him move at that moment.

"...I know who you are," The other man’s voice was still slightly gravelly, rough, but not as unused as the Winter Soldier’s had been. He'd been talking while he was gone, presumably out in the world. He had hundreds of questions, and none of them seemed sufficient.

The failure of his own words had never been more apparent. He waited, as still as anything, while the other man slowly pulled down the sweatshirt hood.

"You found Natasha first," Steve stated, as gently as he could. "Gave her a good scare back there."

A bark of a laugh followed. “Thought she would be able to tell me where you were.” His expression stilled and fell. "I pulled you out of the water.... I didn't think I would need to find you again," His eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. Checking for escape routes, cameras. Steve’s gut wrenched; he knew the feeling. “Guess I was wrong.”

He gingerly removed the baseball cap, letting shaggy hair fall loose by his ears. His eyes glistened out from underneath a heavy brow. Bucky's eyes, in this stranger's figure. Those eyes were just out there, in the world, seeing pain and fear and worry and Steve hadn't been able to find him.

“But you came back.”

“Yeah. That’s right.” Bucky looked incredibly small, and tired. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent, and his face looked hollow.

 

When he was twelve, he’d been laid up sick, and had occupied his time by luring stay cats up the fire escape and into his mother’s apartment with raisins. He’d found that the key was not making any sudden movements, of letting them come to you, to get used to your scent first.

 

Very slowly, Steve slid to the far side of the bed. Bucky stood, wired with tension, staring at the space next to him as though he had never seen such a mattress before. He tried to maintain a steady eye contact, reassuring and constant.  

“You can sit, if you want,” He patted the pillow next to him softly. “I’m not armed or anything.” Buck stared for a moment, making some kind of internal calculus that Steve couldn’t understand.

“Can I close the window?”

Steve nodded in response, keeping still.

Sure enough, Bucky slunk to the edge of the bed, keeping one eye on Steve all the while, never quite turning away from him.

Steve did him the courtesy of facing him, sitting up cross-legged. “I... Buck, I missed you.”

The other man’s eyebrows knitted, eyes dropping to his hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t… remember more.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything, you’re here now,” He resisted the strong and abrupt urge to touch his shoulder, his hands. “That’s all I care about.”

“What if I…don’t know much still? I’ve been trying to read up on me, and you and the war but I-“

He sighed, strong heartache thundered through his chest, knocking on his ribcage. “I wouldn’t care if you couldn’t even remember my name. Honest, Buck,” Bucky met his eyes, a hand darting out to grab his.

“I do remember your name. I promise, I remember you when you were little and I remember being scared for you when you’d get sick, and how your ma used to bring us apples when she got paid, and…” He cupped Steve’s hand like a bird, purposeful and full of concentrated gentleness.

He found himself breathless once again, motionless except for his heartbeat thundering out. He was sure Buck could feel it in his fingertips, and they both stayed still, locked in connected orbit.

“…You did that to me. I don’t think I would have been able to…recover things like that if you hadn’t refused to fight me on the bridge.”

“Bucky

“Stuff’s been drifting back every so often and I’ve….I know I’ve done so many bad things, Steve, I killed people, and I-“

“Buck. Don’t do that to yourself. I’m here, and I can promise you that we’ll figure it out.”

Bucky’s eyes warmed and softened, and Steve could feel his heart widen and glow in his chest. Taking his flesh and metal hands in his, he pressed his lips to them both, warm and solid in his palms.

 Out of the window, the early morning light was shining in from a warm and sweet sun.

 

 

 


End file.
